


Rainy Night

by edibleflowers



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:20:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edibleflowers/pseuds/edibleflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being denied entrance to Stark Tower, Clint and Natasha are forced to stay in a hotel, where they find creative ways to get warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rainy Night

**Author's Note:**

> This fic came about thanks to a prompt from lemniskate, who gave me something about a doorman and freezing rain. There's really not much more to it than that.

"God fucking dammit, I'm going to kill that fucking prick," Clint swore as he stripped off his shirt.

Across the room, Natasha finished undoing her boots and tugged them off. "No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," Clint agreed, shivering hard. "But Tony better have a real good fucking reason not to let us in--" He held his shirt over the bathroom sink, wringing it out; what looked like at least a gallon of water splashed into the sink.

"Did you turn the hot water on?" Natasha asked, calm as if it were a fine summer's day. Nothing ever bothered her, or at least, she never showed it. Clint grumbled as he turned and leaned in to start the water going in the shower. You'd think they hadn't just been standing in a freezing winter rain for half an hour trying to convince Tony Stark's doorman that not only did they have access to the building, they _lived_ there.

"And of course," he grumbled to himself, holding his hand under the spray to feel the water warming, "Stark has to be out of the fucking country, Potts has her cellphone off, can't fucking find Hogan..."

"Did you say something?" Natasha asked. Clint jerked away from the shower stall, his mouth momentarily falling open at the sight of Natasha wearing nothing at all. He swallowed, pulling back into a professional demeanor at once. Natasha's hair was still plastered to her skull, her lips distinctly blue.

"Just talking to myself," he said. "Come on, get in. It's warming up." He stepped aside to let her pass, noting the goosebumps covering her arms, the blue tint in her lips. He'd seen her nude many times before -- granted, the last time had been a few years now -- but he wasn't so much of an asshole that he couldn't focus when need arose. Inhaling, he went to work on his own boots, listening to her sigh of relief as she stepped in, the sound of the water changing with her under it. 

As he finished undressing, he listened for Natasha to finish in the shower. Like him, she made a habit of short showers; rarely did either of them indulge, even when they had the advantages of warm water and unlimited time. He wasn't surprised to hear her stepping out by the time he'd picked out a couple of large, plush towels -- at least they'd chosen a nice hotel to spend the night, rather than hoofing it back to SHIELD's local HQ -- and he unfolded one of the big towels and held it out to her as she stood dripping on the tile. Natasha's lips curved in a small smile, but she let him wrap the towel around her. "Your turn," she said, stepping past him again. Clint smiled, too, pushed down the briefs he'd kept on for modesty's sake, and took his turn in the shower.

He wasn't shivering as badly as Natasha had been, but the hot water still felt delicious, nothing shy of heavenly, and he allowed himself a groan of sheer pleasure and tilted his head back into the spray. By now, the water had been running long and hot enough that clouds of steam rose around him; Clint shivered a little harder as the surrounding heat began to chase the chill from his bones. He could have spent all night basking, revelling in warmth; but Clint reached for the tap and shut the water off after only a few minutes.

As he came out into the main room, towel draped around his hips, he wasn't too surprised to see Natasha already changed. She'd purloined one of his t-shirts, oversized on her, and she sat with her feet under the turned-down covers of the bed she'd claimed. Raising an eyebrow, he reached into his bag -- he'd dropped it on the other bed when they came in -- to pick out a new pair of briefs and a t-shirt for himself. "Got your bed picked out?" he asked, with a brief nod to where she sat.

"I'm still cold," she said, glancing toward him. Her dark eyes seared him: he hadn't seen that look since the op in Paraguay. "I thought we could share."

A brief burst of pure white heat rocketed through Clint, up from his toes to the rawest, most lizardlike part of his brain, making him forget he'd ever been cold. He had to struggle to pull the t-shirt on, trying to stay relatively calm; it wouldn't matter in another moment, though, because he'd have to drop the towel to pull his briefs on and she'd see just how her words had affected him. A glance down, and he abandoned even that hope; the towel tented distinctively at his groin.

When he looked up at Natasha again, his smile was as wry as he could force it. "Got a mind of its own," he said. "Sorry?"

"I'm not," she replied. She pushed up to her knees, and Clint sucked in a groan: backlit by the lamp behind her, he could clearly make out the shapes of her lean thighs through the thin fabric of his shirt, even a suggestion of softness between her legs that hinted at a lack of panties. His gaze traveled up, took in the firmness of her breasts making a gorgeous wreck of the line of his shirt, her nipples (oh dear god her pebble-hard nipples, he could _see_ them), and up to her face, her hair drying in auburn clouds, her eyes dark as midnight.

"Anytime now," she said, and he lost the towel and stumbled toward her.

These moments happened so rarely that Clint wanted to savor them each time they happened; every time, though, he lost himself, couldn't separate himself from the heat of her mouth, her body pressed firm to his, her nipples burning through the shirt into his skin. Right now, if he'd had a moment to be honest with himself, he wanted nothing but to lose his senses in her heat and scent and beauty.

They fell over easily, Natasha's throaty laugh ringing out as she dragged him down. Clint shifted as they went so that he landed on his back, with Natasha half-sprawled over him. She moved at once -- they'd done this enough that they slid together as easily as if they'd been choreographed -- and when she settled on her knees, straddling his hips, Clint groaned: the sudden, intimate press of her on his cock was one of the sweetest sensations he could imagine. Blindly, his hands sought up under the hem of the loose t-shirt she still wore, seeking her skin.

Natasha's hands caught his wrists before he could even start to pull the shirt up, though, her smile curved lazily, eyes flashing. "None of that yet," she murmured.

With her hips grinding down into him, working the sleek damp heat of her labia against his cock, Clint managed a helpless groan. He couldn't help it; she was so hot, so wet, his cock trapped between them -- too much and not enough all at once. "Just, just let me touch you, Nat, please, s'all I want," he panted. "Fuck, you feel so good--"

How she could look so calm like this, he'd never know; the look in her eyes was cool, almost calculating, with just a hint of a smile teasing up the corners of her mouth. Clint loved the challenge that poised look offered, though, and he grinned fiercely when she released his hands, lifting up on her knees at the same time. His cock sprang up with dumb eagerness; Natasha held up the foil packet she'd held tucked between two fingers, using her teeth to tear it open. Her fingers sliding the latex down over him made him keen in an agony of need: she had a way of touching him, stroking him while she rolled the rubber down, that inflamed his need beyond all reason. Barely had she finished than she pushed down on him in a perfectly timed slide, and both of them cried out as she took him into her.

Clint couldn't verbalize why it was so hot that Natasha still had his t-shirt on: maybe it was the fact that he knew every line of her beneath it, her beautiful full breasts, her taut nipples, the slender curves of her waist and hips; maybe it was just that she was wearing his clothing that triggered some possessive demon in his brain. He slid his hands up along her thighs, raking up the hem of the shirt and palming her bare skin. The heat of her, trapped between shirt and skin, sent a hungry thrill through him, and he pushed up harder as she rode down on him, their bodies meeting with harsh urgency.

When she leaned forward to kiss him, nipping at his lip and then sucking on the outraged skin, he took his opportunity, gathering his arms around her and rolling them over. It worked perfectly, for once; he didn't miss a thrust, moving between one raw slide and the next, and then she was under him, arching to him, lithe and slender with her beautiful breasts crowded to his chest, the shirt riding up between them. "Could spend all night like this," he gasped without thinking about it.

"Promises, Barton--" Natasha laughed, broke off to keen a cry of hunger as Clint rocked harder into her, ground his hips against her at just the right angle to get her clit. His head spun; he drew a hand up and over her belly, slicking his fingers between them so he could touch her more perfectly, combining the caresses of his fingertips with the deep pleasure of fucking her into the mattress.

She'd ruined him for all other women, and he didn't care if she knew it. Being with her like this, he came undone, found himself again in her. He didn't care if it was once a year or once a decade anymore. When she began to whimper, the sure sound of her approaching orgasm, he gave in and fucked hard, his thumb firmly pressing her clit while he did his best to drive her crazy with his cock.

It was Natasha who drove him over the edge first, though. One hand pushed up under her shirt, dragging it up enough to reveal the silken undercurve of a breast; her fingers pulled and tweaked her nipple in a nearly unconscious motion, one he'd learned to imitate years ago. Seeing her hand on herself like that: he shattered, hips stuttering, throat raw with the escaping groan.

Buried in her, he felt her come apart around him, the earthquake tremors of her body as she shook into oblivion. He buried his face in her neck and breathed in the rich musky scent of her sweat, the hotel shampoo and soap, hot smell of sex and salt hanging heavy in the air.

"You're heavy," Natasha murmured at last, voice low, rasping in his ear.

With a ragged laugh, Clint started to push up from her, but her arms slid around him, holding him there.

"No," she said. "Stay."

Smiling into her skin, he did.


End file.
